Wistfully
by RichelleBrinkley
Summary: She cannot remember when they were once just a little boy holding a little girl's hand, but he reminds her and she is grateful.


**Title: **Wistfully

**Author: **RichelleBrinkley

**Word Count: **10,096

**Rating:** T

**AN: **It's been a while, hasn't it? Especially since I've written anything for Nick/Richelle. This is such a long oneshot, but I honestly love it to bits and I hope you do too.

Sincerest apologies for anything wrong with the modelling aspect of this story—I am not completely clueless about modelling, but I am by no means an expert to any degree. Hey, I tried my best.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Raven Hill Mysteries_, it is the property of Emily Rodda.

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><p>.<p>

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Richelle Brinkley, at the ripe age of sixteen, is discovered by a modelling scout one day as she is wandering the floors of Raven Hill Mall.

At first she is thrilled, absolutely thrilled. This is what she has always dreamt of—strutting down a runway in fabulous clothes, bright lights, high heels and all eyes on her. Richelle Brinkley, world-famous supermodel, in the centrefold of glossy magazines and storming the runway on Fashion Week.

She leaves Raven Hill, and the only life she has ever known. Because this isn't just some little job their group, Teen Power Inc., got offered; this isn't high school silliness anymore. This is a huge opportunity for her to make it in the modelling industry. This is _serious_.

Her mother is torn when Richelle rushes home on that fateful evening she'd been discovered. Her mother doesn't want to see her little girl go. But she knows better than anyone that this is and has always been Richelle's dream—and right now, it is now a dream teetering on the verge of becoming a reality.

"We'll need you to relocate to New York," Rob, the modelling scout had told her, "That's where all the big stuff happens. You won't have any chance of making it big here in this little ol' town."

Richelle's heart leaps in her chest and her stomach twists with uncertainty, although she stubbornly tells herself that the feeling is excitement. She swallows it down as best she can.

Her smile is weak but unwavering as she shakes the man's hand.

"I understand, Rob. I'll make the necessary arrangements shortly."

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"I don't know what to say," is Liz's response when Richelle tells her. "On the one hand I'm happy for you, but all the same I'm going to miss you so much. What will Teen Power Inc. do without its blonde beauty?" Liz's lower lip trembles. Richelle swallows the lump in her throat and places an arm around her best friend's shoulders.

"I'll come back and visit, Liz. You know I won't forget about you and the gang. Especially not after all these adventures we've had together."

Liz laughs, although the sound is uncertain and stilted. She hugs Richelle, her body still trembling from the shock of the news.

"You'd better not forget us, Richelle."

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It is the first Sunday of summer when Richelle drags her three suitcases out onto the driveway, ready to load into her dad's car. All the gang are there, scattered around her parent's front garden—Liz, Sunny, Elmo, Tom and Nick. The air is gloomy and bleak, despite the bright sunshine of the morning.

Liz sniffs quietly as Richelle's mum checks and double-checks that they have their passports and plane tickets and contact numbers and such. Sunny looks rather grim, her brow furrowed and mouth set in a hard line. Over by her mum's petunias, Tom shifts uneasily from foot to foot, chewing on half a candy bar he had probably found in his pocket. Next to him, Elmo scratches the back of his head worriedly, messing up his curly orange hair—just like always.

Nick has wandered away from the others and is staring into the fish pond by the far end of the garden. His expression is made indiscernible by dark-tinted Ray Bans.

They've never had to say goodbye before, the six of them. At least, never have they been given the chance to do it properly. Richelle looks at her friends, the people who have been with her through thick and thin, blood and sweat and tears—tears which are now pricking behind her eyes. Ashamed, she furiously tries to blink them away—but one escapes and runs down her cheek. Liz sees, and soon Liz is crying with her too.

"There, there," her mum says consolingly, pulling the two of them into a big hug. "Don't cry, girls. Richelle will be back to visit before you know it."

"We should leave soon," Richelle's dad says, checking his wristwatch, and her parents get into the car to give the six teenagers some privacy to say their goodbyes. One by one, Richelle pulls each of her friends aside.

"I'll remember those balancing techniques you showed me," she tells Sunny.

"Try not to mess up your hair," she tells Elmo, "And I'll send you some newspapers from New York, so you can see what they're like." Elmo smiles sadly.

"I'll miss your jokes," she says to Tom, and he offers her a bite of his candy bar. Which is a pretty swell move, considering him. Richelle politely declines.

"I'll miss you," she manages to choke out to Liz, and the two of them clutch at each other and cry until Nick clears his throat and taps her on the shoulder. Still sniffling, Liz re-joins the rest of the gang, and Sunny puts a comforting arm around her.

Richelle turns to the tall boy standing beside her, eyes still hidden behind his sunglasses. Her best friend. Suddenly, she cannot think of a single word to say. "I..." she trails off, the words refusing to come. There is so much she wants to tell him, and yet nothing seems right.

Nick looks at her and although Richelle cannot see his eyes, she knows that they are as cool and calculating as always. "Take care, Rich," he says simply, his voice low and inclining his head a fraction. Richelle nods back dumbly, tears still streaming silently down her cheeks. Brushing them away, she thinks about how even as she is about to leave for an indefinite amount of time, still she doesn't want Nick to see her cry.

"I'll see you," she manages to mumble, her throat tight from tears, "...again. _Soon_."

The corners of Nick's mouth lift slightly. Ducking his head, he leans down and kisses her softly on the cheek. "Both. Again and soon," he agrees. Richelle nods in agreement.

And then, it is time for her to go.

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At first, it is scary. Her mum is there to stay with her for the first month as she settles into her auntie's apartment in Manhattan. Richelle is glad, because New York is a lot to handle, especially having grown up in such a tiny town like Raven Hill.

She enrols in the local high school, and whatever time she doesn't spend there she spends with her new agent, Jeff, scheduling photography sessions and modelling auditions. Richelle starts out doing catalogue work, because as Jeff tells her, she needs to lose a few pounds before she can try booking any runway shows. In the meanwhile, she does several TV commercials, just background work, and goes to the gym every day in secret—her mum doesn't know about her need to diet, and she would rather keep it that way.

By the end of the month, she's lost enough weight, and after Jeff treats her to a session at a fancy hair salon in the city, her hair is lighter than it has ever been before, her eyebrows are plucked and tinted and her previously long blond hair is now trimmed shorter and cut into a sophisticated long bob. "I'm not just your agent, I want to be your friend," Jeff tells her, smiling easily. "And I know you're going to make it big, given the right training. You're special, Richelle." Richelle bites back a smile as his compliment quashes any lingering feelings of self-doubt. She feels more beautiful than she has ever felt in her entire life. She is confident she can do anything right now if she sets her mind to it.

Her mum flies back to Australia the day after, and Richelle is left with her Auntie May for company and New York at her feet.

She frequents a café below their apartment building, and quickly becomes friends with one of the waitresses there, Anne. Anne is eighteen, with brilliantly dyed red hair and striking dark eyes. She introduces Richelle to her circle of friends, and in no time Richelle is one of them too.

Months go by. Jeff trains her hard, and by the time Christmas rolls around, Richelle has shed more blood, sweat and tears than she has ever known she could. But it all pays off, because in late May of the next year she manages to book her first show, walking for Dior's Spring/Summer collection. Needless to say, there are more tears when Jeff calls to tell her the news.

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The show is a success. Richelle doesn't fall, even in her six-inch stiletto boots.

When she stumbles home after the after party, tipsy and stinking of smoke and sweat, she is surprised to find her Auntie May still awake. "Your mum's on the phone for you, dear," she tells her, before frowning disapprovingly at her dishevelled state.

Richelle feels a twinge of guilt. Between her modelling classes, going to the gym and hanging out with her new friends, she hasn't found the time to call her mother as frequently as she used to when she first arrived in New York. In fact, it has been over two weeks since she has last spoken to her.

"Hi, Mum," she says nervously into the receiver, but all of her guilt vanishes when she hears her mother crying on the other end.

"Darling, I'm so proud of you. Your very first fashion show. Isn't this just wonderful?"

"Yes. Yes it is," Richelle says, and perhaps it is the gentle tones of her mother's voice, but she is suddenly struck with the strongest feeling of homesickness; she longs for the pink-and-white walls of her old bedroom and the warm, comforting arms of her mother.

She misses her old friends too, she realises. It has been a very long time since she has thought about them. The only one who had tried valiantly to keep in contact with her was Liz—but Richelle's hectic schedule often meant that she forgot to return her calls. The time difference certainly didn't help either. Eventually, when a month passed without any contact, Richelle's guilt prevented her from calling and facing the inevitable hurt Liz would surely express.

"When are you coming home to visit?" her mum wants to know. Richelle swallows the lump in her throat. With school work and modelling projects, she isn't free for at least another month and a half.

"I...I don't know, mum," she says guiltily, "I'm really busy with school and modelling right now."

"But honey, you didn't even come home for Christmas."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just—I'm very busy right now…with everything. Mum, I have to go. I'll call you back some other time."

Richelle never does find the time to call her back.

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The months fly by in a blur of runway shows, editorials and hastily scribbled last minute school assignments. The months turn into years, more than Richelle realises, and suddenly she is twenty-one and there is snow and fairy-lights decorating the windows of the café underneath her apartment, and cheery Christmas tunes playing from the old vintage stereo.

Like she has every year for the past four years, Richelle flies her family out to visit her, and they spend Christmas Day together amongst the bright lights of the city and the falling snow. It is real, cold, crunching snow, something they had never got to experience in December time in Australia.

"You need to come back to Raven Hill," her mother begs that Christmas night when the food has all been eaten and all the presents unwrapped. "Just for a quick visit, if you're busy. Everyone misses you. Your friends, especially. Please, Richelle," she implores.

Richelle shakes her head. "I need to stay here, mum. I have school and modelling to worry about, I don't have time to fly back home and visit. Besides," she adds at her mother's crestfallen expression, "Don't you like visiting me in New York? It's nice for you to get out of Raven Hill for a change."

Her mother sighs. "Whatever you think is best, darling."

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Richelle slowly builds her portfolio, her weeks getting busier and busier the more prominence she gains.

By mid-June the following year, she has finally gotten her big break, modelling for a popular fashion chain store, and her face is on display windows in shopping centres and advertising billboards all around New York. Jeff is immensely proud. He calls her into his office one day, and hands her a schedule.

"I've got a surprise for you." He smiles at her, but there is something serious behind his eyes. "Due to your recent success, you've been booked for three shows for Fashion Week in August."

Richelle's brow furrows. "New York Fashion Week isn't until September."

Jeff opens his desk draw and pulls out a slip of paper. Pushes it into her surprised hands. "Something's come up. You're needed back home in Raven Hill, I hear. You're also booked for _Sydney_ Fashion Week in August—that's the surprise. All airfares and accommodation fees are on the agency."

Richelle stares at him in shock. Jeff looks at her seriously. "I know you don't want to return to your hometown, Richelle. Your lame excuses every time Christmas rolls around don't fool me. But they need you back there."

"I don't want to go!" Richelle protests, panic blooming rapidly in her chest. But Jeff simply shakes his head.

"Raven Hill awaits your return. Pack your bags, you leave in a week."

"F–Fine," Richelle splutters, still exasperated, staring in disbelief at the plane ticket in her hand. _New York to Sydney. _"See you at the end of August, Jeff."

"Have a safe trip, Richelle."

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Home is just the same as she had left it, six years ago.

As the taxi cruises slowly down Raven Hill's Main Street, Richelle's eyes trace the all too familiar and yet strangely foreign planes of the buildings she had grown up around. As the taxi passes the Glen, Richelle catches a glimpse of red hair amidst the tall grass and weeds. _Elmo_—it had to be.

When they pull up outside her old house, Richelle pays the driver generously and cajoles him into carrying all of her bags to the front door. Jeff had informed her on no uncertain terms that she had exactly one week in Raven Hill before she needed to return to the city for fittings and rehearsals.

Her stomach twisting nervously, Richelle climbs the porch steps—newly varnished sometime during her absence—and with shaking fingers, rings the doorbell. Her mother opens the door, and she is crying and hugging her daughter before she has even made it over the threshold.

Looking around, Richelle realises the clock on the mantle is gone, replaced with an ugly ornament undoubtedly made by Jason in a pottery or ceramics class. The curtains are new, as is the rug on the floor. There are more cracked tiles than ever in the kitchen, which still smells the same after all these years—like gingerbread cookies. It is a lot to take in, the rushing familiarity and yet the sense that she was looking at it all from a stranger's eyes.

She is glad to see her family again. And yet, Richelle feels the same creeping feeling washing over her skin and slowly seeping into her bones.

It is the feeling of unease she has come to associate with Raven Hill.

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Liz invites her out for dinner the second she learns that Richelle is back in town.

"I'll call the others," Liz says, babbling a little in her excitement. "Tomorrow night, okay? I can't believe I'm going to see you again—it's been five years too long!"

After she hangs up, Richelle spends an inordinate amount of time sitting on her bed, staring blankly at the cordless phone still clutched in her hand. Her teeth gnaw at her bottom lip until she can taste the metallic, salty tang of blood. Richelle feels nervous, more than she has ever felt before any catwalk show or photoshoot.

What would her old friends think when they saw her now?

She spends the rest of the evening (and the better part of the next day) rifling tirelessly through her suitcases. If she had to see the gang again—well, she had to look her absolute best.

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The restaurant is far less crowded than Richelle would have liked.

Crowds mean people, more noise and bodies to hide amongst. Crowds discourage peoples' desires to cry or make a scene.

Richelle arrives at _Julian's Diner_ exactly sixteen minutes after seven. Although it is lucky she made it there at all; crippling nervousness at the thought of seeing her old friends again had gotten the better of her—unfortunately, Richelle had forgotten how easily her mum could see through her flimsy guise at faking the flu.

"Your friends have missed you a lot," her mother had said firmly, "Don't be silly now, put on that nice blue dress and go out and have some fun. I hear Liz even got her mum to bake some of her famous brownies for you."

And so Richelle finds herself scuttling meekly out of the front door and walking along the main road to the small line of shops by the bend. The dim lights of Julian's Diner greet her from a distance.

Nervous as she might be, years of modelling training have rubbed off on her, and Richelle walks as straight-backed and tall as always, her heels clacking on the concrete of the sidewalk. They sound much more confident than she feels.

The little bell over the door chimes when Richelle reluctantly enters the restaurant. The greeter, a boy she faintly recognises from her days at Raven Hill High, smiles brightly although a little surprisedly at her. "Richelle!" he greets, a little too enthusiastically, "It's been a long time. How are you?"

Richelle smiles automatically at him, although she feels far from cheerful. Her stomach is doing somersaults and the warmth of the diner is starting to make her feel flustered. There is a faint ringing in her ears.

"I'm as well as can be expected," she tells the boy. "I'm here to meet Liz and a few others."

"Yes, they've been waiting for you. Table 14—take the stairs and it's the one in the far left corner."

"Thanks," Richelle says absentmindedly, wondering if it is too late to make an escape. But a couple has just entered the restaurant behind her, and they are blocking the doorway, her means of escape. Reluctantly, Richelle forces her legs to move, guiding her slowly to the upstairs level of the restaurant. With each step, the ringing in her ears gets louder and her palms become clammy with sweat. Her heart hammers wildly in her chest, which all of a sudden feels like it is in a corset and someone has pulled the strings unbearably tight.

She really doesn't want to face her old friends. It has been six years since she had last seen them, and the foreignness of this situation scares her so much she wants to scream.

Eight...seven...six more steps to the top of the landing. She stops when she is four steps away, because she can see the upper floor now, admittedly from a very low level, but it is immediately clear to her which table belongs to her friends. Her head is so low that Richelle can only see their shoes under the table, but she recognises the runners that belong to Sunny. Liz is wearing a pair of purple mules with horrid orange bows on them. Tom and Elmo both have sneakers on, Tom's more scuffed but Elmo's more muddy. She cannot see Nick's shoes, and for a moment she puzzles, but a pair of polished dress shoes make their way across the floor to the gang's table, and Richelle realises Nick probably just went to the bathroom. He had always been adamant on hand-washing before a meal.

Even after all this time, Richelle can still recognise her friends, just from the sight of their shoes.

"Pardon me, Ma'am, are you quite alright?" A waiter is looking at her rather oddly. It is not hard to see why; Richelle is paused midway on the staircase and peering at peoples' shoes with a panicky expression. "Is there anything I can help you with, Ma'am?"

"I'm fine," Richelle says hastily, sending him away with a wave of her hand. She takes one last look at her group of friends—or rather, their shoes. Her chest contracts painfully.

Then, Richelle hurries back down the staircase and leaves the restaurant quickly, the little bell over the door chiming gently as it closes behind her.

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Rather than face her mother's disappointment right away by returning home, Richelle walks swiftly along the quiet streets towards the edge of town. The moon has emerged and stars scatter the sky above her head, tiny pinpricks of silver amongst the inky canvas of greys and midnight blues.

Richelle stops once, and only to pull off her high heels. The rough concrete and later the gravel hurts her bare feet, but she doesn't stop walking until her feet have carried her all the way to the very border of Raven Hill, to a small clearing just yonder the town sign and winding road.

In the darkness, Richelle cannot make out the words 'Raven Hill' in peeling yellow paint on the dark navy sign, but she knows they are there. She knows there is a raven, wings spread wide and beak open mid-caw, painted above those words.

Sitting down on the soft moss, ignoring the few twigs and stones that dig into her bare thighs, Richelle closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She attempts to clear her mind, to forget that she is in the middle of a tiny Australian town instead of her home in bustling New York City.

However hard she tries, she cannot. The sounds of an owl hooting and nocturnal animals scurrying and rustling do nothing to help reinforce the illusion of New York in her mind. The air, earthy and clean, smells nothing like the mishmash of scents found in New York; food and smoke and flowers.

Opening her eyes, Richelle stares down at the valley visible from where she sits. It is cloaked in shadow and mist, but she knows that somewhere down there a clock tower chimes by the hour. As if on cue, the deep sounds of a giant bell ringing float to her ears. Richelle counts nine chimes.

Reluctantly, she thinks of her friends. Wonders if they are still at the restaurant right now, enjoying dessert. Tom would most definitely order a chocolate cake. Elmo would most definitely get some on his shirt. Sunny would laugh and Liz would scold the two of them, but bite back a grin all the same.

And Nick? Surely he wouldn't eat something as ordinary as chocolate cake. Nick would order something fancier, like poached pear, or tiramisu. Maybe even an éclair or lemon trifle.

Richelle's stomach rumbles, but she ignores it. She has long learnt that being a model does not come without its downsides, and one of them was the constant hunger gnawing at her insides.

She doesn't know how long she sits there, but the stones digging into her skin prove to be too uncomfortable after a while and instead Richelle moves to lie on a tall patch of grass, fronds of a low-hanging willow tree almost brushing at her cheeks.

A long time ago, she would have been repulsed at lying amongst the dirt and the grass, stains on her new blue dress and her heels discarded, flung carelessly behind a nearby rock. Tonight, Richelle is too lost in her thoughts to care. In fact, she cannot imagine ever caring about the dirt underneath her fingernails ever again. It feels so foreign, and yet it is comforting. She has likely never been so willingly dishevelled in her life; leaves and twigs tangled in her hair, dirt smearing her skin and clothes; even a ladybug crawls along the length of her arm.

Lying on her back, Richelle gazes at the full moon shining overhead, half-shielded by a canopy of leaves.

"Why is it so hard being back here?" she asks it, "Why do I feel like a stranger in my own hometown?" The silvery-white beams volunteer no answers.

The sounds of the clock tower bell reach her ears again, and Richelle lazily counts the chimes. Ten. It is late enough that if her parents find out that she missed dinner they would be worried about her. Richelle hopes word has not gotten to them yet. She doesn't have a plan, not really. She came to this clearing to get away from the suffocating heat of the restaurant and the overwhelming anxiety at having to see her old friends again.

The simple truth is that she is scared—horribly scared that in her five years away things in Raven Hill have changed too much, the people twisted unrecognisably despite their familiar features.

The old Richelle had barely fit in with her friends as it was; only redeemed by her long-time friendship with Liz and the occasional but more often rare help she provided on jobs. Now, she no longer had even that. She doesn't even know if _Teen Power Inc._ is still a thing. Surely they hadn't discontinued the job agency? But the thought of her old friends solving mysteries together and getting into trouble without her makes Richelle's stomach twist uncomfortably.

She must have drifted off, lying amidst the wild grasses with moonbeams kissing her skin, because the next thing Richelle knows, Nick Kontellis calling her name and the night is no longer warm, but brisk and biting. The chill claws at her skin and raises goosebumps on her exposed flesh.

"Nick!" Richelle gasps when she has gotten her bearings, "What are you doing here?"

Her former best friend looks grim. "Taking you home. What were you thinking, coming out here this time of night? It's not safe, Rich!" His easy use of her old nickname throws her for a second—it has been six years since anyone has called her that.

Scowling, Richelle shakes her head stubbornly. "I'm fine," she insists, perhaps a little more sharply than intended. "I just came here to get away for a bit. How did you find me?"

Something akin to hurt flickers in Nick's eyes. "Get away? Rich, you've barely been in town for two days."

"Funny, and it's already starting to get to me."

Nick growls in annoyance. His voice is slightly deeper than Richelle remembers. "You missed dinner. Tom wore the most garish bright orange T-shirt. It had a picture of a juggling bear on it."

Richelle blinks slowly. "That does sound terrible."

"Believe me, it was." Nick pauses to look sideways at her. "Care to tell me why you bailed?"

Richelle swallows nervously. Sits up straight. Notices that Nick is sat on the dirt beside her with utter disregard for his expensive dress pants. The Nick she knew never would have done such a thing; she wonders what else has changed about him in the time she has been away.

Sighing, Richelle looks down at the dead leaves beneath her palms, and absentmindedly begins picking one apart with her fingers as she considers Nick's question. She chooses her words carefully. "I needed a little time to...get used to this place again. I haven't been back for a while." She schools her expression into one unafflicted and unreadable, and doesn't let the mask slip even as Nick scrutinises her through narrowed dark eyes.

However, when he speaks again his voice is earnest. "Not much has changed since you've been gone, Rich. This is still the same ol' Raven Hill," a wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, "Criminals and all."

She fights to stop the sudden onslaught of memories, but all too quickly they are flashing through her mind—emeralds in a fishpond; fake blood dripping from the ceiling; nursery rhymes with a sickening twist. There is a lump in her throat, and Richelle suspects she may soon be on the brink of tears. Swallowing hard, she tries to avoid Nick's gaze, which is fixed on her intently. "Raven Hill may seem the same to you, Nick. But I've been away for six years. I'm a stranger to this place now."

Despite her best efforts she cannot quite conceal her emotions, and a tear spills from the corner of her eye. It forges a wet trail down her cheek that glitters faintly in the moonlight. Richelle wipes the moisture away quickly, but Nick sees nonetheless. His hand reaches out towards her hesitantly, and Richelle notes his unease. It used to be Liz who comforted her whenever she cried, and the awkwardness of Nick's gesture tells her all she needs to know about his experience (or lack of) with crying girls.

"Do you want to go back to New York?" Despite his discomfort, Nick asks her almost urgently. Richelle realises that he knows her answer already. But he is begging her change her mind, to correct him.

She shrugs. "This is supposed to be my home, isn't it? It just doesn't feel that way anymore." The steadiness of her voice contradicts the continued pricking of tears behind her eyes. Determinedly, Richelle blinks them away.  
>Perhaps six years ago she would have let them fall easily, but not now. She is stronger now, and has long learnt that being vulnerable does not grant any favours. At least not in the modelling industry.<p>

"Oh, Richelle," Nick sighs, and when he looks at her, his eyes are sad and disappointed and unsure. The air between them is so different now; Richelle does not know him anymore, and even less does he know her. They are no more than two strangers sitting side by side, and yet their shared history begs them to fill the heavy silence in-between.

"Do you know what I did while you were away?" Nick asks bluntly. Richelle can hear the pain in his voice, and she thinks offhandedly that she should probably be touched he is allowing her to see it.

"I came here, to this very clearing, every day after school for the first month. You don't remember, do you?" Nick smiles bitterly when she looks confused. "I met you here, Richelle. Seventeen years ago, when you were five and I was six. Even then, you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen."

Richelle is surprised by his compliment, but does not speak up. Nick reluctantly looks away from her so he can point into the distance.

"The clock tower—that's the first thing you asked of me. You wanted to climb it one day, and you made me promise to take you."

Richelle shakes her head slowly. "I don't remember any of this."

Nick's smile is half-hearted at best. "I don't expect that you would. You were pretty and popular and you had a lot of friends. It's easy to forget a boy you met once by accident."

"And yet you remembered."

Nick looks away. "I took your hand and vowed I'd take you there some day. It was...a wistful, childish promise. But it was so important to me. Of course I remember it."

Richelle doesn't know what to say. Nick does not speak again either, and the silence drags on as the wind sways branches around the clearing and the toes of Richelle's feet grow increasingly numb due to their exposure.

Eventually, the moon disappears behind a cloud, and although Richelle can hear Nick she can no longer see him. The sudden veil of darkness is almost opaque, the dim glow of the moon extinguished by both the cover of clouds and the canopy of leaves above their heads.

"Richelle," Nick says finally, and he breathes a heavy sigh. She does not like how he sounds so exhausted and yet still caring. "Richelle, what are you going to do?" Nick asks, and his voice is so defeated—he already knows the answer. Richelle knows it too.

She wishes she could consider even the possibility of moving permanently back to Raven Hill. But everything has changed so much in these past six years, and the thought of staying in this tiny, dreary town for even a day longer fills her with the utmost sense of dread. This is not her home anymore. She does not belong here.

Once upon a time, it may have been hard to voice her thoughts to Nick. Painful, even. Now it is all too easy to say words that wound him. "You know I can't stay here."

Nick's frustrated exhale and following silence does not cut her anywhere near as deeply as the thought of being trapped in Raven Hill forever does.

"You know what I think?" Nick says finally after several tense minutes, "I don't think it's the gang, or the town, or the so-called "changes" that you say you see here. I think it's you that's changed the most." Nick's tone is accusatory, angry, and Richelle feels the same sense of isolation that had first washed over her upon stepping foot back inside this town.

"I barely recognise you." Nick laughs, but the sound is empty and hoarse and bitter. "You look so different. You're so...poised and thin. You're indecipherable. You used to show your emotions so readily, but now I can't read you at all. You're distant and blank and you act like you don't care about this town or the people in it anymore."

Richelle frowns slightly, even though it is too dark for him to see. "I care about my family."

"And what about your friends?"

"My friends," Richelle says, and there is a horrible, stagnant pause, "...my friends are in New York."

Upon her words, the clock tower bell chimes in the distance. It chimes only once, and somehow the lone sound is more haunting and eerie than a thousand chimes could ever be.

Nick does not respond to her words. Or perhaps, maybe the deafening silence is his response, Richelle thinks.

A cool wind rustles the leaves, and Richelle realises her skin is stinging from cold and she is shivering violently. She needs to go home, to warmth, lest she fall ill. That would be disastrous considering she is scheduled to walk for Zimmerman in Sydney in a mere five days. Hurriedly, Richelle pushes herself off the ground, ignoring the prickles of pine needles underneath her palms. "I'm going home," she says to the darkness, before realising just how impossible finding her way back home in this darkness would be.

Nick voices her thoughts, his face is still in shadow. "You can't go home now, Richelle. It's pitch-black out there. You'll get lost or hurt yourself." His words are neither harsh nor gentle. In fact, he sounds so completely devoid of emotion that Richelle feels a pang of guilt stir in her chest. She wills it away. Nick is right, she can barely see a foot in front of her, the darkness is so stifling. Attempting to find her way home like this would surely be dangerous.

"We'll have to wait until morning," comes Nick's voice again, still monotonic and empty. "We can't risk hurting ourselves stumbling around in the dark."

Richelle is freezing, shoeless, and beginning to choke up with fear. It is like a terrible, terrible nightmare—lost unseeing in the dark with no means of getting home. She is not sure if Nick's presence makes it better or worse. However, she concedes that there is nothing to do but wait for the sun to rise. Wordlessly, Richelle lets her legs fold beneath her, and she crumples gracelessly to the ground. Once again, the stones find new ways to dig into her skin.

She can sense Nick is somewhere to her right. "The sun should rise at around six-thirty," he says.

"Brilliant." Richelle says flatly, but she can hear the fear and tiredness behind her voice. There is a rustling from Nick's direction as he gathers a small mound of leaves to lie on, to cushion himself from the hardness of the ground. Then, Richelle feels something warm and soft glance off her right arm. It is Nick's jacket.

"Thank you," she mumbles quietly.

"Go to sleep," Nick mutters, "It'll make the time pass quicker."

Richelle debates arguing with him, but the silence is starting to feel welcoming now instead of eerie. It has been a long day. "Goodnight," she says simply.

"Goodnight Richelle," comes Nick's quiet whisper.

Richelle pulls the warm material of Nick's jacket around her. It smells of his cologne, spicy and expensive and strikingly familiar. She realises it is the only thing she has come across in this town so far that hasn't changed.

Richelle closes her eyes.

And then, the world falls silent once again.

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Richelle does not realise she has dozed off until she wakes suddenly to a loud cawing somewhere to her left.

Lifting her head slowly, she winces as aches and pains make themselves known all over her body. She had slept curled up in a ball on the moss-covered ground, and her neck hurts from the lack of pillow, her left arm sports sharp indents from being pressed into the stones and earth, and her spine is sore from her being curved tightly all night.

Two beady black eyes peer curiously at her, and Richelle realises the cawing sound was made by a large black raven, perched proudly on a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree. Spreading its wings, it lets out a loud crow that makes Richelle jump.

"Mmph?" Nick has woken. Richelle can hear him moving about to her right, muffled curses escaping his lips.

It is definitely light now. In fact, the morning is blindingly sunny, the sky cloudless and blue as a forget-me-not. Despite her uncomfortable night, Richelle feels her mood lift instantly as sunbeams dance over her skin.

"It's—oh my god, it's nine-thirty. I'm supposed to be at work." Nick sounds panicked. Richelle wonders what his work is. Perhaps he had joined the family business.

"Richelle?" She finally turns to look at the man who has scrambled hurriedly from the ground and is furiously brushing pine needles and leaves from his hair and clothes. Amusement stirs within her. Nick looks a mess.

Groaning, Richelle stretches her arms above her head, loosening her stiff muscles. Leaves and clumps of moss cling stubbornly to her dress, but she does not care.

Nick is peering into the sky. "We need to get back," he says, squinting at the position of the sun, "We've been gone far too long. Everyone will be worried." Turning to her, he looks her over and frowns. "You're covered in moss and leaves."

"I am well aware," Richelle says evenly. Nick shakes his head in exasperation.

"Oh, yes, you're different now, aren't you? Does dirt and grime not bother you anymore?"

Richelle shrugs. "Not in this town."

Nick squints at her for a long moment before shaking his head and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "Come on, let's get you back home. Your mum will have already called Constable Greta, I'm sure of it."

Resisting the urge to rub the sleep from her eyes (her hands are covered in dirt), Richelle looks around for her shoes, and finds them half hidden behind a large rock. Slipping them on, she winces as the thin stilettos sink instantly into the soft ground. Nick notices, but makes no move to help her as she tiptoes gingerly across the clearing.

Before they leave, Richelle takes one last look at the valley in which the clock tower protrudes, tall and proud amongst the tiled roofs of houses. If Nick sees her look, he does not say a word. Richelle wonders if their friendship was destroyed in its entirety last night, when she had said her only friends were in New York.

Truthfully, it would not make much difference if Nick no longer considered her friend. They had not spoken for the majority of the years she had lived in New York, and his friendship in Raven Hill was barely a necessity. They had been broken a long time ago, the two of them, from the very second Richelle had turned her back on him and gotten onto that plane to New York City.

Richelle walks behind him now, along the winding dirt road that leads back into town, and wonders if things would be different should she have chosen to stay.

Of course they would be.

"Nick," she calls suddenly, and he stops and turns to look at her. She has to know. The sun is behind him, casting his face into shadow. Richelle squints against the glare. "Nick, if I hadn't left Raven Hill, what would have become of us?" Her words are softer and more gentle than they have been since he came to find her last night.

For a second, surprise flashes through the obsidian of Nick's eyes. Then, he shifts his gaze. "We would have climbed the clock tower," he says, looking into the distance behind her. Richelle turns around, but she can no longer see the tall building nestled in the mist.

When she turns to face Nick again, it is to the sight of his turned back, walking away from her.

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Richelle doesn't stay. She gathers her never-unpacked bags that same very day and calls a taxi to take her to Sydney. Her mum doesn't understand the reasons for her sudden departure, so Richelle leaves her without saying a proper goodbye. It is cold—cruel, even, but if she had to choose between staying in Raven Hill for even a second longer or upsetting her mother, she'd most certainly choose the latter.

Her taxi is late. The afternoon sun warms her skin as she stands on the corner of Main Street, sunglasses perched atop her head and bags stacked unceremoniously on the pavement.

That is how Nick finds her, chewing her lip impatiently as she waits for the bright white dot in the distance that would indicate the arrival of her taxi.

"Richelle!" Nick shouts, running over to her. He is frantic, eyes blazing and hair windswept. He doubles over when he reaches her, hands braced on his thighs, panting and wiping sweat from his brow. Richelle's heart sinks. She had hoped to leave without seeing him again. Because truth be told, Nick's presence brought with it the weight of complications she did not want to have to deal with. Life would be much simpler without having to unravel her complicated relationship with Nick.

His eyes are black, pitch black and seething as they level her with an accusatory glare. "You were going to leave without telling me," he says, and it is not a question.

Richelle levels him with a stony glare of her own. "My leaving this town is none of your concern."

"_None of my_— Richelle, you just don't get it, do you?!" Behind him, the white paint of an approaching taxi appears at the stretch of road into town. Richelle estimates it will be at least five minutes before she can finally make her escape. In the meantime, she has to put up with Nick.

"What don't I get?" she asks, making sure he sees her roll her eyes. She doesn't care what Nick Kontellis thinks of her. Not anymore.

But Nick is angry, and his words are raw and cutting—yet desperate with emotion. "You don't know what it's been like, with you gone. This town feels _empty_. Your house mocks me, every time I pass it. Your spot under the gum tree at the Glen. I can't go down High Street anymore, because it always reminds me of you tugging on my sleeve every time you saw a pretty dress in one of the shop windows."

The taxi is barely halfway. Richelle keeps her eyes fixed on it, even as she struggles not to react to Nick's pained words.

"You were my best friend, Rich. You still are. And I have spent _six years_ missing you. Is it too much to ask that you stay just a little bit longer in this _godforsaken town?_ I just want to know you again."

Something aches in Richelle's chest. Nick's words have brought her pain, she realises. As he watches, a tear slips unwittingly down her cheek. She is mortified, but Nick wipes it away gently and his fingers do not linger. They used to linger, five years ago. She misses that.

The taxi is almost here. Nick sees her hold out her hand to signal it, and Richelle can pinpoint the exact moment he realises there is nothing he can do. She is leaving, perhaps for even longer this time.

"I'll miss you," Nick says, and Richelle wonders how he can possibly say that when she has been nothing but neglectful of their friendship these last six years. Again, her chest pangs.

The taxi pulls up to the curb. The driver nods to her and begins loading her bags into the trunk.

"Don't go." Nick sounds beaten and so defeated that for a second Richelle feels sympathy for him. But she can't stay. Not for Nick, not for her mother, not for anyone.

The driver slams shut the trunk and motions for her to get in.

Against her better judgement, Richelle turns to Nick one last time. "I'm sorry about dinner."

Nick merely shakes his head. "Will I ever see you again?" he wants to know.

Richelle takes a moment to consider this. "Not in person."

"I wish you would've said 'soon'," he says bitterly. There is a stagnant pause.

"...Never again," Richelle replies.

And with that, she is sliding gracefully into the backseat of the taxi and driving away.

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Sydney is a whirlwind of colourful clothes, makeup artists and bright fluorescent lights that make her uncomfortably hot as she walks down the runways. But it is fun, and modelling again feels good after her disastrous trip to Raven Hill.

The night of her last show, Richelle catches a glimpse of jet black hair in the audience as she struts and poses in her Zimmerman gown. It shocks her for a second, but she pushes the absurd thought quickly from her mind. Why would Nick Kontellis be at a fashion show in Sydney? The idea was downright preposterous.

Only it isn't, because when the night is finally over and Richelle is pulling false lashes from her eyes as she stumbles tiredly back to her nearby hotel, a voice sounds from behind her that makes her heart stop—and then pick up again at twice the speed.

"Nick!" she gasps, spinning around, hand to her chest. The pounding beneath her palm is strong and erratic. "What are you doing here?"

Nick doesn't answer her question. "You were great," he tells her sincerely, and there is a hint of shock in his eyes. "You're really are good at it, Richelle. Modelling."

Richelle inclines her head, mind still tangled in confusion. "Thanks. But why are you here?"

Nick shrugs. "It's where I wanted to be."

"I—" Richelle starts, but she really has no idea what to say. Nick cuts her off, however.

"You know what I realised when you left me not once, but twice in Raven Hill without my best friend?"

"What?" Richelle asks cautiously. The night is dark, but the dim streetlights cast Nick's features in a hazy orange glow.

"I realised that it isn't your absence that mocks me. It eats away at me, sure. Sometimes I feel so lonely I want to catch the next plane to wherever you are just so we can sit down together and talk about your newest jumper or my new computer.

"It's that one unfulfilled promise. With you gone, it just reminds me every day that we never had enough time—never got around to doing everything we said we would together."

"The clock tower?" Richelle asks, surprised. "Nick, we were just kids when I made you promise me that."

"And we were sixteen when you promised I'd see you again." Nick is watching her closely, gauging her reaction.

"I did see you again," Richelle says defensively, but her shoulders slump. His words have slowly begun to gnaw away at her conscience.

"When are you going back to New York?" Nick asks.

"The day after tomorrow."

"Spend a day with me," Nick says earnestly, taking a step closer to her. Richelle does not back away. "Just one day. Spend tomorrow with me, and I promise I won't ever bother you again if you don't want to see me anymore."

Richelle shakes her head, although her expression softens at his sincerity. "I can't."

Nick looks crestfallen. "Why not?"

This time, it is Richelle who steps closer. Two...three steps until she is right in front of Nick and her high heels make them almost the same height.

"I can't spend the day with you," she says, her hands reaching up to grasp the lapels of his suit jacket, "because I know if I do, if I let myself know you again—" Nick's chest is warm beneath her fingertips, even through his jacket. Richelle can feel his eyelashes brush at her temple as he inclines his head towards hers.

"—I'll fall in love with you all over again."

Nick kisses her, and it is like lightning.

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Richelle's blood is gasoline, and Nick is the match that bursts her into flames.

Against her better judgement, Richelle pushes all thoughts of consequence out of her mind for a second—just a second—and kisses Nick back as the orange street lamps flicker overhead. The night is brisk and the air chilling, but as she kisses her childhood friend Richelle feels nothing but the burning of her blood and the dizzying sensation of Nick's lips pressed against her own.

It is far, far too good to last.

Richelle jerks away abruptly, hands flying to her mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the ragged gasps of her breathing. Her eyes are wide as saucers, stunned and bright. Her mind struggles to comprehend what had just happened.

"Richelle?" Nick says her name rather hoarsely, his eyes similarly shocked but still somewhat glassy. "Are you alright?"

Richelle chews her bottom lip anxiously. "I have to go," she tells Nick firmly, smoothing down her hair even as it continues to be tousled by the wind. The wind has grown louder now, and it is hard to hear Nick's words as they spill frantically from his lips.

"You're leaving again? For how long this time?"

Richelle is already walking away, swallowed by the shadows of the night. "Indefinitely," she calls back to Nick, "I can't deal with all of this right now."

Nick's answering call makes her stop in her tracks.

"We're supposed to be friends."

Richelle shakes her head sadly, not turning around. She cannot bear to look at Nick right now. "We were never just friends, Nick. You of all people should know that."

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The next time Richelle Brinkley sees Nick Kontellis, they are both twenty-four and he is two sheets of glass and a hundred-foot drop away.

She is in a meeting with god knows who—some guy who wants to contract her to model his new sunglasses line—or was it sneakers? Nail polish? Richelle really doesn't care. She doesn't care, because the moment she had walked into the airy office space, high up on the 45th floor of some fancy glass building in the middle of Manhattan, she had happened to glance outside at the ominous, thundercloud-stricken sky, and instead was distracted by a perfect view into the building adjacent.

She is so close that she can see a figure pacing a brightly-lit conference room, financial figures and charts projected onto a whiteboard. She can see the ten or so people, all dressed in suits, that shuffle their papers and nod at the pacing figure every now and again.

It is amazing really, that the pacing figure in the finely tailored suit is none other than her old friend, Nick Kontellis.

Richelle stares, fascinated and oblivious as her contractor frowns and attempts to recapture her attention. Because Nick Kontellis is now exactly who she thought he would grow up to be—a businessman, a good one at that—striking and charismatic and powerful and intelligent. Judging by the nods from his company, whatever he is pitching to them is more than satisfactory.

Nick doesn't see her as Richelle watches him, two sheets of glass and the sky in-between. The sky booms and rain falls hard, and yet he does not look out of the window, too focused on his meeting.

It is only when Richelle realises that Nick's colleagues have all gathered their papers and Nick is nodding them all goodbye that she snaps out of her reverie. Nick exits the room, the door closing behind him, and Richelle springs from her seat, hurriedly grabbing her purse and phone. She ignores the man she was supposed to sign a contract with, even as he protests indignantly and brandishes multiple pairs of sunglasses—on second thought, she nicks a pair of the men's shades that have a fancy silver embellishment on the frame.

"I'll pay for them!" Richelle calls over her shoulder as she rushes from the room, "I just need to do something first!"

She is on the 45th floor, and the elevators seem to take forever. Richelle grits her teeth as the doors open at almost every other floor on the way down, and more and more people struggle to cram themselves in.

By the time she has managed to stumble from the lift and into the far too brightly lit lobby, the rain is coming down so hard that she cannot see anything but stormy greyness outside. Thunder booms overhead, and Richelle is deaf to everything but the cracking sounds of an angry sky and the bullet-like force of the rain, hammering loudly against the glass walls of the building.

Still she runs, slipping off her stilettos and throwing them carelessly into her bag as she pushes blindly through the revolving doors and finds herself standing on the slippery pavement outside. Instantly, the cold pierces her skin and rain soaks her from head to toe. It is even louder out here—noises of traffic, howling wind and the yells and whistles of people on the street as they try in vain grab the attention of passing cabs.

Her eyes sting from the rain, but Richelle forces herself to look around; a tall figure, his briefcase clutched over his head in a vain attempt to shield against the rain, catches her eye. As she watches, a company vehicle pulls up to the curb in front of him and the man hurries over to it, preparing to get in.

Richelle runs. Her bare feet slip and slide on the wet concrete beneath her, but not once does she fall, her balance perfected from years of modelling exercises. Passer-bys yell at her as she jostles them in her pursuit, but she does not stop to apologise. Her focus is on reaching Nick—Nick, who is loading his briefcase into the trunk of the car and sliding into the passenger seat in a hurry to get out of the torrential rain.

She reaches him just as he is closing the passenger-side door.

"_Nick!" _

Her yell is lost to the wind, but Nick seems to hear it anyway. Richelle watches as, slowly, his face appears in the window—expression incredulous and mouth gaping at her sodden and frantic state.

It seems to happen in a daze; Richelle watches, as if in slow-motion, as Nick clambers out of his car and into the pelting rain and shrieking wind. His hands grab her bare shoulders and Richelle realises she is soaked to the bone and shivering violently—Nick leads her away from the open street and under the shade of a nearby shopfront. He fumbles with his suit jacket, and Richelle has a profound sense of déjà vu as she finds herself—once again—with Nick's jacket being draped over her shoulders.

"_What are you doing?"_ Nick shouts over the cacophony of noise that rages, making his voice barely intelligible.

Richelle laughs, definitely too hard, her eyes too bright and her body still shaking. She is cold, wet, and standing barefoot on the street with a friend she hasn't seen for two years. Somehow, everything about this seems hilarious. Sheepishly, she fishes in her bag and pulls out the pair of sunglasses she had nicked from the man who had wanted to hire her. She holds them out to Nick, laughing at his confounded expression. "A present for you," she says, pushing them into Nick's hand.

"_What?_ You ran after me in this—_"_ Nick waves his hand at the rain bucketing down around them, "—this _ridiculous _weather, just to give me a pair of sunglasses? They still have the security tag on them, too."

Richelle brushes her wet hair from her eyes and looks up at the boy she has been in love with for so long. Without her heels, she realises just how much taller than her he has grown.

"Nick," she starts, but pauses to yank the sunglasses back from Nick, fiddling with the security tag as she contemplates her next words. "Nick, I made a mistake. My friends aren't just here, in New York. They're wherever you are, because you're my friend too. My best friend."

"Some best friend you are," Nick smirks; and just like that, Richelle knows she has always been forgiven for her mistakes, probably before she had ever made them. Because Nick Kontellis, smug and arrogant though he was, loved her enough to know that his best friend—the girl who had taken his hand when they were merely children—she still cared about him, even if she had lost herself for a little while, buried beneath layers of silk and satin, makeup and magazine spreads.

Richelle's fingers pry at the security tag—suddenly, ink seeps from it and covers her fingers. "Oh god," she says, and holds her stained fingers up for Nick to examine. He takes her hand, uncaring, and holds it tightly.

"I'm sorry," Richelle tells him, "I'm sorry for being distant and leaving you more times than any best friend should ever choose to."

Nick looks at her, curious, "What brought all of this on?" Richelle looks at him, then down to their tightly entwined hands. Giggling, she breaks into a run, dragging Nick behind her by their joined hands—back onto the street, into the still-pouring rain.

"Hey, what are you doing? Where are we going?" Nick yells, one arm up, trying to shield his hair from the rain.

Richelle doesn't stop until they have stumbled through grass and trees, mud and leaves, and are standing in the centre of Madison Square Gardens, facing the huge building that dominates it from one side. Wiping rain from her eyes, she realises that, too late, she has smeared ink all over her face. Nick laughs helplessly at her crestfallen expression.

"Seriously, why are we here?" he asks her once he has managed to control his laughter.

Richelle turns towards the tall white building facing them, and lifts a blue-smeared hand to point at the structure nestled at the top. Nick's jaw drops.

Because in front of them, standing tall and proud and magnificent, is New York's very own clock tower. Perhaps not as symbolic as the one near Raven Hill Nick and Richelle had promised to climb together as children, but it is a clock tower nonetheless; and this one may be different, but it still symbolises everything a clock tower did when they were children—a challenge, a promise, their friendship—and, gradually, their love.

"Richelle," Nick breathes, staring at the building in awe, "That clock tower—"

Richelle smiles, wrapping her arms around the shoulders of her best friend. "Would you like to climb it with me? I mean, you probably just have to take an elevator since it's an office building, but—"

"_Yes_," Nick cuts her off, his eyes brighter and his smile wider than Richelle has ever seen it. "Yes, I'd love to."

"Okay," Richelle says, and Nick leans his forehead against hers.

"Soon," he agrees, and Richelle kisses him, her ink-stained hand leaving a smudgy blue imprint on his cheek.

Nick is either oblivious, or he doesn't mind.

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><p><strong>AN: Yes, that Manhattan clock tower is real. It is called the <em>Met Life Tower <em>(short for _Metropolitan Life Insurance Company Tower_), and it overlooks Madison Square Park. **

**Absolutely no idea what I'm writing next, but I'll try and get something posted for New Year's.  
><strong>

**Until then, thanks a ton for reading, I really, honestly appreciate it so much.**

**Much love,**

**RichelleBrinkley xx**


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